


At Both Ends

by methylviolet10b



Series: Emergency Contact Number [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Injury, too much caffeine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:05:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hell isn't fire. It isn't ice. It's a waiting room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Both Ends

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't read the other stories in this series, you might not want to read this one. Plus there's exceedingly dubious pseudo-medical practices, technobabble hijacking of CCTV cameras, and other questionable actions. The hot chocolate order is real, though; I've heard someone order it and drink it. If any of the above isn't your cuppa, this might not be the story for you.
> 
> Like all stories in this series, this is a promptfill fic. This one's for the following song prompt: Don't You, by Candlebox.

Lestrade ran one hand over his face, trying vainly to scrub some life back into his over-tired brain as he listened to the words flowing over him from his mobile. “Yeah, okay. Thanks Sally.”  
  
Donovan huffed loudly enough that Lestrade heard it over the line. “Don’t worry about it. Just keep a sharp eye on him, okay? God only knows what havoc he could wreak right now.” Although her words were acerbic as ever, Lestrade easily discerned the worry behind the banter. “And let me know the minute you know more.”  
  
“Will do.”  
  
“And get some sleep if you can. You sound absolutely knackered.”  
  
“Sure, sure.” He was burning the candle at both ends, but he knew there was no chance he’d sleep anytime soon. He was beyond tired, but even if he weren’t at the hospital, he’d still be too wired to sleep. Too worried.  
  
“At least remember to eat something along with all the coffee.”  
  
“Nagging me to eat?” Lestrade made a noise that might have been a chuckle under other circumstances. “You sound like – ” He cut himself off, abruptly wide awake and shocked at what he had been about to say.  
  
“…John. Yes, I realize.” Donovan finished the thought for him. “We’re all pulling for him, you know.”  
  
“I know. And I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” _When he wakes up. If he wakes up. If he makes it._ Lestrade carefully said none of these things, but he knew Sally was thinking them just the same.  
  
“I’m sure he will.” He heard the same trained confidence in her voice that he’d used a moment earlier. Two professionals each reassuring the other, each knowing the realities lying beneath the words, but saying them with resolute cheer all the same. “Give him my best. Now I’ve got to get back to it.”  
  
“I will. Thanks.”  
  
The call ended, and he automatically returned his mobile to his pocket. Then for long moments he merely stood there, leaning against the wall, trying to muster the energy to move.  
  
 _Four dead, including John’s cab driver. Five more in critical care, including John. Christ._ He pressed both hands against his temples, trying to stop the sick throb of his headache, the inevitable thoughts. _And nine in less serious condition, including two who will be facing formal charges as soon as they’re out of hospital._ He shook his head in angry disbelief. _Road rage. As if the world wasn’t dangerous enough._  
  
Speaking of dangerous…it had been remarkably easy for him to get emergency leave for the day. Either his higher-ups were genuinely alarmed at the idea of an unsupervised, stressed-out, frantic Sherlock Holmes lurking at a local hospital – which was possible, as the idea was frankly terrifying – or Mycroft Holmes had more influence in more places than Lestrade had guessed.  
  
Perhaps the truth lay somewhere in between. A bit of both.  
  
But if any of the latter was true, then that also meant Mycroft _wanted_ Lestrade here at the hospital, with his brother, and was willing to pull whatever strings necessary to ensure it.  
  
And that thought was just as terrifying (if not more so) than the notion of Sherlock being left alone here, waiting on news, waiting on developments, waiting on John.  
  
They were all waiting on John, really. Which was ironic, because he’d have been the first to insist that they all go home, get some food and rest, because there was nothing they could really do here but wait, and they might as well be rested and comfortable while waiting. Not to mention get out from underfoot of the hospital staff, help them do their jobs if only by reducing the number of potential distractions.  
  
A practical man, John. Too bad he wasn’t here to convince Sherlock to budge, because no one else had a hope in hell of doing so.  
  
Dammit.  
  
But Lestrade could be practical, too. Practical enough that he detoured on his way back to the waiting area long enough to stop by the coffee stand, now open and doing a brisk business. The prices were absurd, but the girl running the place didn’t blink twice at his rather unusual order – and she got each drink exactly right. Lestrade dropped a decent tip into the jar before bringing the laden drinks carrier back to the private waiting area where he’d left Sherlock.  
  
Mycroft was still gone – had vanished shortly after dawn, murmuring something about a critical meeting that simply could not be put off – but Mycroft’s assistant was there, eyes glued to her Blackberry as usual. Sherlock was also still there, so Lestrade figured she must have done a decent job minding him in Lestrade’s absence despite her apparent inattention. Either that, or Sherlock had given up on trying to sneak into the critical care ward for the time being, now that he’d managed to hack into the allegedly closed-circuit monitoring systems with his mobile. The woman (he still didn’t know her name) had dark circles under her eyes now, much darker than they’d been when they’d first arrived.  
  
He wondered how long _she’d_ been awake. Long enough to seem a little more approachable now, her walls just a trifle lower, broken down by fatigue.  
  
“Here,” he said, offering her the cup with the double-strength tea in it. “You look like you could use this.”  
  
Her eyes rose up from her Blackberry to meet his in a brief instant of surprise. Her expression blanked again almost immediately, but she took the cup and sniffed it. “PG Tips?”  
  
“Yeah. I brought sugar, if you want any. And there’s biscuits.”  
  
“No, this will be fine.” Her eyes dropped back to the screen, but a faint smile softened the lines of her face. “Thank you.”  
  
“No trouble.”  
  
He moved over to Sherlock, who hadn’t raised his eyes from his mobile, either. His pupils remained fixed on the tiny CC image relayed from the camera in John’s room and the numbers scrolling alongside it. Trying to focus on the mobile’s screen made Lestrade’s headache even worse. He couldn’t make out enough detail to tell who was in that bed, or even if it was male or female; it was just a figure surrounded and obscured by more equipment than he liked to think about. But Sherlock seemed to be getting some kind of comfort out of it. At the very least, it kept him from slipping further towards that unresponsive, vibrating-with-repressed- _everything_ state he’d been in earlier.  
  
“Here.” He set down the first of two cups next to Sherlock.  
  
Sherlock’s nostrils flared, but he did not look up. “Cocoa, Lestrade?” His voice dripped derision. “I’m not a child.”  
  
“No, you’re not,” Lestrade replied, even as he thought _could have fooled me sometimes, what with the shouting and running all over and stepping on everyone’s toes and heels and the sweet tooth John tipped me off about._ “But John’ll kick my ass if I don’t get some calories into you soon.”  
  
Sherlock did look up at that. “You didn’t make Anthea consume anything calorific.”  
  
 _So that’s her name. Good to know._ “I offered; she declined, as you heard. And John probably won’t take me to task for that. You, on the other hand…”  
  
“You, too,” Sherlock mumbled. His eyes dropped back to his mobile.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You, too,” Sherlock repeated in something close to his usual don’t-be-a-boring-idiot tone, but Lestrade wasn’t fooled for a heartbeat. “John would want you to eat, too.”  
  
“Which is why I brought my own beverage, plus biscuits. He can bitch at us about proper nutrition later.” _Particularly if he ever learns that I asked for your cocoa to be part whole milk, and part half-and-half._ It was beyond rich, but Lestrade figured he had a better shot with sneaking by the extra calories that way than by trying to get Sherlock to actually eat a noticeable amount. “So drink up.” He took a sip of his own four-shot cappuccino by way of example before fishing out the packet of biscuits.  
  
It worked, too. Over the course of the next hour, Sherlock drank the entire contents of one cup, and at least half of the second. He only ate part of one biscuit, but with all the calories in the cocoa, Lestrade wasn’t as fussed about that as he might have been otherwise.  
  
The cappuccino, plus the painkillers he swigged down with it, reduced his headache to a manageable level. Despite all the caffeine, however, Lestrade’s eyes kept trying to glaze over. He could feel exhaustion pulling him under, long moments of staring at nothing while half-formed thoughts swirled sluggishly through his consciousness, before anxiety jerked him back to full awareness.  
  
God, he hated waiting. Hell wasn’t fire. It wasn’t ice. Lestrade firmly believed it was a waiting room, one with too much tension and unending worry and no relief in sight –  
  
Sherlock jerked upright in his chair.  
  
“What?” Lestrade demanded, already halfway to his feet before his brain registered it. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Anthea go rigid, staring at Sherlock.  
  
“We have to go now.” Sherlock sprang upright and headed for the exit.  
  
Lestrade grabbed his arm. “We have to – what, Sherlock? What’s happening?”  
  
Sherlock shook him off, twisting out of his grasp with surprising ease, and avoiding Anthea with equal dexterity. “Now, Lestrade!” His eyes blazed, emotions flickering across his face too quickly for Lestrade to grasp. “John’s waking up!”

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted September 19, 2011


End file.
